


Croissants?

by wneleh



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Earthquakes, Gen, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/pseuds/wneleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where's Blair ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Croissants?

**Author's Note:**

> My first post-adolescent fanfic! Written so that I could join SentinelAngst (go SentinelAngst!).
> 
> In my mind's eye, it was to focus on Jim's feeling of betrayal toward Blair for not understanding how concerned he was, with lots of angry words and the subsequent emotional fallout. But, as I got to writing this, Jim just seemed too tired for that nonsense.
> 
> The feedback I got on SentinelAngst complimented me on the humor in the story. I really wasn't trying to be funny! I have that problem in real life, too.

_Sometime after TSbyBS..._

Breathe in – breathe out – in

"What about the chapel? Maybe we should head up there next?"

The low bass of his supervisor, Simon Banks, was of the sort which Jim Ellison could generally filter out effectively (NEVER tell him that, Jim thought). After over a day of having his sense of hearing wide open, though, his control was shot, and Simon's voice boomed through his skull, shaking lose his hold on the bum-bump, bum-bump which he'd almost localized.

"What the HELL would Sandburg be doing in a chapel!" Jim snapped back.

"It's been a half-hour since you've found anyone here"

Jim waved him silent and cocked his head, resuming his stance, staring at the partially-crumpled brick wall of Mt. Hillrock College's student activities center, the site this weekend (the middle of spring break, it seemed) of a conference on societal rule-keeping in post-Colombian tribal societies of North America, or something. Blair had come there to present some of his closed-societies stuff, though Jim had not really understood what – he assumed that, primarily, Blair had found an excuse to hang out with the "closed societies" crowd, which had been much more friendly after the post-dissertation-release mess than the "Burtonites" (as Blair called them) or the "pre-Colombians". Blair'd left the loft at 6:30 a.m. the previous day, anxious to get up to Grovesville.

When Jim had felt the low tremble of a distant movement of the earth, Jim had started to worry. When the time the call came in that a 5.5 tremor had hit a small town 80 miles east of Cascade, Jim didn't need to be told WHICH small town. Nor had he been surprised when reports immediately came in about buildings collapsing – where Blair went, building code violations followed (and psychopathic murderers, for that matter.) It was a fact of life. "We should lock him up for the good of humanity," he'd growled to Simon when his boss had caught up with him a few hours later, when they'd responded to the call for assistance from the completely overwhelmed county sheriff's office. Simon had nodded and handed him a bottle of water – the right kind, he was relieved to see.

Prior to Simon's arrival, he'd been doing some triage at the college, his EMT credentials earning him a spot within the cordoned-off campus now swarming with emergency response personnel from throughout western Washington. Almost as soon as Simon had handed him the bottle, though, he'd begun to hear voices, the strongest and most desperate coming from a small stone-and-wood structure about 50 years from where he'd been working. He'd quickly rounded up some fire fighters and pointed them in the right direction. This had garnered him a spot on a search squad; after pinpointing five more trapped people in the space of an hour, he'd been given carte blanch to wander at will throughout the campus, Simon at his side to snap at and hand him candy bars and coffee, a few other rescuers hovering a few yards away to respond whenever he'd stopped pacing and pronounced the location of another victim.

Jim had concentrated his efforts on the student activity center, working through the night, through the drizzle. Now it was past sunset on a clear, cool March day of the sort Sandburg loved. Simon had been spelled in the early morning by Taggert, but had returned after only a few hours. Jim hadn't asked where he'd gone, had barely acknowledged his presence.

Now, though, Simon was clearly getting tired; Jim sensed that he was also starting to flag. Which was unacceptable – Blair was here somewhere. Somewhere.

He straightened and resumed his pacing. THERE it was, a rapid heartbeat, shallow but steady respiration – a woman in her 50's, probably a bit overweight but generally healthy, Jim surmised. He jogged a few yards to the left, to triangulate. Bingo! "Simon – tell them to look about 20 feet beyond this door!"

"Sandburg," Simon asked.

"No!" he hissed. He sank down onto a low granite curb and rubbed his cheeks roughly while Simon briefed the rescuers who'd been assigned to them most recently. Breathe in, breath out what would Sandburg's heartbeat sound like right now? Was he hurt – scared – Blair had avoided confined spaces, since.

Bum-bump, bum-bump, he heard. Yes, that's what Blair's heart sounds like, he thought idly – then sprang up to engulf his guide. To swing him around and sink his face in the dark curls.

The dark, freshly washed, conditioned, and combed curls.

"You SHOWERED!"

"Well, yeah," said Blair, pulling him down to sit on the curb again. "I was pretty rank. Over a day sharing a bakery basement with sick five-year-old twins and a scared collie will do that."

"But – you've showered already?"

"Water's from wells around here, Jim – it was really no big deal."

"But – we've been looking"

"Hey, I'm sorry"

Jim just shook his head, pulling his jacket tighter.

"Jim, I didn't even know you were here!"

"Where the hell ELSE would I be, Sandburg!"

Jim's neck wouldn't support his head anymore, it seemed – he now had to hold it with both hands, his elbows braced awkwardly against his too-high knees.

He heard Simon jog over, was aware of Blair springing up and embracing their captain. "Blair, I've never been so happy to see your ugly mug" Simon was saying. Now, Blair was talking about five-year-olds and attractive counter help and the wonderful pastries he'd been entombed with. And Simon was telling Blair how many people they'd located and the stories he'd been making up to explain his ability. I sense their auras? That was more plausible, and would cause less trouble, than saying that he had really good hearing?

"So, what's with Jim?" Blair asked, and Jim looked up, blankly.

"Blair, we've been looking since early afternoon yesterday. Jim hasn't sat down this long in hours. We didn't discuss what could have happened to you, but what do you think he was thinking?"

"But Simon, man, I'm ALWAYS alright, right?"

"He showered, Simon," Jim said. Didn't that explain it all? He'd been so scared, and the twit had stopped to shower.

"Jim, I showered this morning also," Simon said.

"So – I guess I'm ready to join Search and Rescue," Blair said, looking around.

Simon barked a laugh. "Kid, you are going to help me drag your partner to a squad car, and then you are going to drive him to the high school, and then you are going to sit with him while he sleeps. THEN you may come back and start searching wherever needs searching. Do you understand?"

"Uh, that bad, huh?" said Blair. Jim felt his partner's hand brush the top of his head, then Blair sink back down beside him, his arm going around his shoulder.

"Ready to get going?" he asked.

Jim just nodded. Speech was impossible.

As they walked towards the nearest cluster of official vehicles, a woman in a FEMA jacket intercepted them. "I take it you're leaving – your man there has become a bit of a legend, so we'll make sure you get a quiet place to rest, and some security as long as you need it." This made no sense to Jim. He got into the back seat of the car he was told to; dimly he was aware of pulling onto the street; then, a moment later, of people thumping the car, calling out for him to help them find their daughters, their husbands, their friends He started to tell the driver that they should turn around, that he had to keep on looking, but then he realized that the voices had been silent since Sandburg's arrival.

"Later," Blair whispered to him.

He nodded. It was all too much he focused on the warmth of Sandburg's hand on his knee. With a start a few minutes later, he realized he'd slept, or maybe zoned. Now he was being ushered into a small house, into a bedroom Blair was taking off his shoes, lying him down.

"This part of town, the houses are anchored to bedrock," Blair was saying. "The quake knocked pictures off walls, but there's no real damage at all. The bakery I was stuck in was next to a stream, on sediment, and the front of it simply slid away, like a book on a shelf"

The analogy made no sense to Jim. "But the croissants there, man, they were EXCELLENT. Light, but really flavorful. I want all my disasters to come with butter croissants and decent coffee."

"Croissants," Jim repeated. His eyes were already closed, and he felt himself drifting. "Chief"

"Yeah?"

"You aren't really a twit."

"Thanks," said Blair.

"You can shower whenever you want."

"Thanks."

"Just don't tell me you slept last night."

"Eight hours, man, on some sacks of flour."

"Of course, Chief," said Jim, as sleep claimed him. "I bet the flour was radioactive, though."

Blair's puzzled "uh" was the last sound he heard.


End file.
